


A Valentine's Breakfast

by QueerCannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU where Mason isn't a total asshole, Fluff, Food is People, Gift Fic, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal likes Mason, M/M, Mason is a smol, Mason likes Hannibal, No murder, Oneshot, Plot What Plot, Timeline Divergence, Valentine's Day, mildly dubiously established relationship??, so much fluff I might actually die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 09:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13900935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCannibal/pseuds/QueerCannibal
Summary: It started with therapy, and somehow ended up with Mason having his own room at Hannibal's; he didn't really know how it happened, or when they'd officially-not-officially become a cohabitation thing? But he didn't entirely hate it.Mason confessed he'd never celebrated Valentine's day, Hannibal decides that isn't acceptable.PURE FLUFF! THAT'S IT! ENJOY~





	A Valentine's Breakfast

A Valentine's Breakfast

Dedicated to an RP partner

(Sorry I suck so bad at writing Mason, I am out of my element here. xD )

 

                It had come up during one of their private sessions, the almost off handed remark that he’d never celebrated Valentine’s Day; he couldn’t figure out why it mattered so much, it was just a stupid commercial holiday that had lost any and all importance during one or another religious crusade a long time ago—why should he care?

But Hannibal seemed to think he should care, even if the doctor confessed he didn’t often pay much attention to the holiday himself—agreeing that it was in fact very commercial and without much import in the modern day and age; he’d slyly slipped in that it was just a day for the heterosexual couples to pretend that caring for each other wasn’t an around the clock type of thing.

Mason had laughed at that—hadn’t been able to restrain himself. Throughout their sessions, Mason had begun wondering if perhaps the psychiatrist wasn’t gay or some other type of queer leaning individual; it would almost be too easy for the man to be gay, what with his appreciation for the arts, and the cooking, and the way he dressed—no, gay was too easy, but the comment had made Mason wonder if the doctor ever had any sexual or romantic interest in men.

                “Why are you pressing this? This of all things?” Mason asked as their private session had come to an end, still puzzled by the older man. Hannibal had crossed to the fireplace and glanced back at him, expression difficult to read due to the glow of the fire behind him.

                “Because everyone should experience the holiday at least once.” Was the simple reply, and it left Mason feeling just as confused and conflicted as before; this feeling persisted right up until February 14th.

 

                Mason woke up in the room that had been designated his, and felt anxiety crawl across his skin. Today was Valentine’s day; today was the valentine’s day that Hannibal insisted he celebrate. But how would they celebrate? Sure, on some base level Mason understood the holiday, but that didn’t really help him as he rolled out of bed and hobbled sleepily towards his bathroom.

He showered and went through his usual morning routine, before pausing in front of the mirror. His hair was wet; curls pressed flat to his head, and worried his lip slightly; should he dress special? Would they be going out, or staying in? He huffed in frustration—Hannibal really hadn’t told him anything.

 

                Dressing in a pair of nice—but admittedly tight—dark gray pants, and a whine red button up, Mason fiddled with the buttons at his cuffs before getting frustrated and just rolling the sleeves up to the elbows.  He chose a silver vest, slipping it on and buttoning it, before looking through his drawers; he was mildly surprised to find how much of his wardrobe had ended up at Hannibal’s—and at how many new clothes the older man had gotten for him.

He could still hardly believe that this thing had developed; they were polar opposites, had nothing in common besides money, and yet…

                Returning to the bathroom, Mason toweled his hair and frowned at his reflection; his hair was impossible! It had always been a wild thick curly mess, and no matter what he did with it, there was no hope. His hair was to short, and too thick to bother with straightening, but he wondered if he couldn’t maybe try and contain it just a little bit.

Grabbing at the assortment of hair creams, gels, and sprays, Mason spent a good thirty minutes trying to get his hair to work with him—huffing in frustration and defeat before giving up.

His hair was still a mess, though perhaps there were less fly away hairs, and the curls that stuck out looked a little more uniformed.

                “This is as good as it’s going to get.” He sighed to himself, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and going to put his socks and shoes on.

\--

                When Mason padded down the stairs, he was greeted with what smelled like an old fashioned breakfast buffet—pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, the works—and found Hannibal in the kitchen; he’d been right, Hannibal was cooking a large breakfast, and looked as if he’d even made fresh orange juice.

Mason felt his stomach flip a little; sure Hannibal always cooked for him, and the meals were always nice, but all of this seemed, sweeter somehow.

                “Morning.” He mumbled as he entered the kitchen, hands in his pockets, and moving to lean against the opposite counter so as to be well out of the other man’s way. Hannibal glanced his way with a friendly smile before turning his attention back to his stove.

                “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

                “Pretty good. The, the uh, heated blanket is helping.” He admitted, feeling a tingle of embarrassment crawl up his spine; Mason suffered from terrible chills, and couldn’t sleep well if he were cold—when he’d confessed that to Hannibal, the older man had gone out and purchased him the softest, and frankly warmest, electric blanket Mason had ever seen.

                “That’s good. Glad to hear it.” Hannibal platted the last of the food, and gazed at Mason as he picked it up, gesturing for Mason to head into the dining room ahead of him. Mason pushed off of the counter and did as silently suggested; when he entered the dining room he was surprised to find a centerpiece of different colored roses, and even a few red, pink, and white balloons tied around the room.

Mason felt his cheeks heat as he sat down, gazing wide eyed at the flowers, and the balloons; Hannibal meanwhile set out all of the food, and plated some of everything for Mason, setting his plate before him.

Mason flinched when he realized Hannibal was so close to him and turned to look at the man.

                “Did you sniff me?”

                “You put something in your hair.”

                “Uh,” Mason blinked, cheeks beginning to turn pink, “I uh, well, it was just,” he looked away flustered, stomach flip flopping as he gazed at the food on his plate. Hannibal grinned, and with two fingers drew Mason’s face back to his own.

                “Why Mason, have you been preening?”

                “Wh—nO!” He frowned and tried to puff up indignantly but deflated quickly into his seat. “No, It was just, well, I,” Hannibal chuckled and gently withdrew, rounding to the head of the table and taking his seat.

                “Relax, you look nice.” Hannibal reassured, as he added pepper to his plate, glancing back up at Mason briefly. “And your hair looks good. I like it.”

Mason felt his entire body flush, and a small feeling of pride blossom in his chest. He knew his face was bright red, his ears ringing with the blood flow, and picked up his fork, eyes fixed on his plate; he couldn’t quite stop the small smile from curling his lips.

                “Thank you.”

 

                Over breakfast they talked a little, and Hannibal informed Mason, that he had a few gifts for him—he hadn’t given Mason time to protest—and that he’d get them at the end of the day; they’d be going out to an ice rink, where Hannibal intended to teach Mason how to ice skate—and though Mason was nervous, and a bit overwhelmed by it all, he was also rather excite; he’d never ice skated before.

                “And Mason,”

                “Yes?” Mason’s head perked up, forkful of eggs momentarily forgotten.

                “Happy Valentine’s day.” Hannibal said as he stood to fetch the orange juice, pressing a kiss to Mason’s temple as he passed.


End file.
